


Phiona

by hypothetical_chainsaw



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Crack, F/M, I just went off on one for 4000 words about how Zelda got her name and I'm not even sorry, I mean KIND OF?, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29024043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypothetical_chainsaw/pseuds/hypothetical_chainsaw
Summary: With the name 'Phiona' not existing before the mid 1700s, how exactly did Zelda's middle name come to be? She's only too happy to share aversionof events
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Phiona

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZeldaByrdeBishop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeldaByrdeBishop/gifts).



> The lovely [@ZeldaByrdeBishop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeldaByrdeBishop/pseuds/ZeldaByrdeBishop) recently pointed out that the name Fiona/Phiona wasn't created until roughly 1762 for the poem _Fingal_ by James Macpherson and yet Archieverse Zelda is at least years old meaning either the numbers really don't add up or someone's going to have to get creative about the origin of her name...and I'm the idiot that would choose the latter. You're welcome.

1780

As she sat in the Spellman’s favoured pew (the front left where they could be all the more receiving of the Dark Lord’s blessings) for the first time in nearly two decades, all eyes were on Zelda - exactly as she wanted them. No mission in recent memory, perhaps in all of Coven history, had been as prolific as hers and she’d be damned if she didn’t share the good work she’d done with anyone in need of an example.

Stretching back over the pew in a show of fanning herself as she took in the waiting congregation, her left arm knocked Shirley’s Satanic Bible from her hand, her right doing the same to the Satan-awful glasses sat high on her nose. eighteen years and still she could count on Shirley to be behind her. _Always_ behind her. Zelda smirked before schooling her features into the picture of apologetic faux-candor.

“Shirley,” The other witch’s back still bristled at the way she said her name - _good,_ “I didn’t see you there. Let me help you with those.”

Turning fully she knelt up on the pew, bending low over its back before Shirley’s scrabbling hands were battling with hers to collect her belongings.

“I’m quite alright, Spellman.” She bit back, cursing under her breath as Zelda reached the glasses first.

“Oh no,” Bible and glasses now firmly in her grip, Zelda righted herself, catching Faustus’ eye from across the room.

Of course he was watching. She lowered her gaze before meeting him with a demure look through her lashes once more. It’d been far too long since she'd been able to enjoy him and, from the frankly salacious appreciation written across his face, it seemed he shared her sentiment entirely.

Memories of him bending her over that very pew the night before she had left flashed across her mind and she shivered at the reminder. She’d still felt the dull ache of bruising across her stomach the next day, where he’d fucked her into the hardwood with such force just breathing had been a challenge. No doubt the same memories were playing through his mind that very moment as she pressed herself against the pew’s back in a way so reminiscent of that night. Faustus adjusted his positioning where he sat, giving himself a little extra, much needed, leg room. Oh he definitely remembered.

She’d pilfer the keys from her father’s study again tonight and they could _reacquaint_ themselves in that pew again - a mirror image of her departure. How very fitting.

Her attention returned to Shirley before her, and she fixed her with her most magnanimous ‘High Priest’s daughter’ smile, “I insist.” Leaning in close, she watched what little of Shirley’s hair wasn’t pulled into a severe bun flutter with the closeness of her breath, “Long voyages do make me ever so clumsy.” She unfolded the spectacles’ arms, slipping them over one ear then the other before pushing them up the bridge of Shirley’s nose, “It is an awfully long journey from Scotland. Did you know my mission was to the homeland?”

“Um, Zelds?” A small voice buzzed at her left, a voice she hadn’t missed in the slightest.

“Not now, Hilda.” She snapped, before smiling back at Shirley.

“It’s only that-” Before Hilda could so much as breathe the end of that sentence, Zelda’s withering gaze was on her, sinking her further into her seat with a squeak.

Zelda attempted a light chuckle as she turned back to Shirley but she doubted it was believable. _She_ wouldn’t be interjecting if it had been Hilda’s mission. Hilda could bloody well wait her turn.

“Younger siblings always think they know best. But then, you’re a younger sibling, aren’t you, Shirley?” She simpered, sweetly.

“Actually I’m a mid-”

“ _No,”_ Zelda gave an exaggerated whisper, her index finger drawing forward to rest on Shirley’s lips, “You needn’t worry, I don’t hold it against you. Now, as I was saying-”

The door to the side of the church creaked open and silence fell around her. _Damn Hilda to Heaven;_ she’d lost her her chance.

Exasperatedly, Zelda thrust Shirley’s Bible into her hand before sliding into her own seat, pouting. There was little that could end Zelda’s goading so abruptly but the sight of Reginald Spellman stepping up to the pulpit, in full High Priest regalia certainly could.

No matter; she’d find the time later.

* * *

For all it’s wool, Zelda’s kilt was far...breezier than her usual skirts. Her mother shot her a challenging look, complete with brow raise, as she stepped out into the crisp November air of the church grounds and she cast one right back. Despite her argument that she had worn it regularly while in Scotland (she hadn’t) and the entire journey back (there’d been no chance of her wearing anything but her warmest winter wear over the bracing Atlantic but her mother didn’t need to know that) her mother had held strong that it was inappropriate dress for a woman of repute. They had compromised and she had begrudgingly added stockings to her ensemble. Now, with more leg on show than ever had been outside of a Coven holiday, Zelda was not prepared to admit that she was grateful for what little protection the extra layer provided.

She fumbled in the little, leather pouch for a cigarrillo, desperately in need of the little field of heat its glowing end would provide. The little buzz it gave wouldn’t hurt either. Thank Satan she hadn’t been the only witch sent to help prevent the destruction of the Scottish Covens under the English’s fist. If she’d been left without any other external influence during that time, she might well have gone mad.

The cigarrillo fell into her grasp and she lit it between her lips with the now familiar incantation. She’d have to send Ramón a letter of thanks for lighting the first one for her in a postcoital haze. She might as well have died and gone to hell right there.

Smoke filled her lungs as familiar footsteps neared. How was Shirley always so heavy footed? The daintier steps beside hers she wasn’t so familiar with. Heels digging into the soft dirt underfoot, Zelda wheeled round coming face to face with Shirley and…

“Constance?” She’d been a tot when Zelda had left, but those eyes were so strikingly the babe she’d delivered that she’d recognise her anywhere.

The young woman flashed a toothy grin, before giving a more subdued nod of her head as though remembering herself, “Sister Zelda, your skirt is scandalously beautiful!”

“It’s an obscene cry for attention if you ask me.” Shirley pipped up, crossing her arms across her chest.

And Zelda’s ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ smile was back in place, her free arm linking into Shirley’s elbow, “Just because your cries are never answered, Shirley, there’s no need to be bitter about it. The men of our Coven simply have good taste; both in clothing and women.”

She took a deep drag from her cigarrillo, languishing in the heat of smoke whirling round her lungs. How she’d ever coped in brisk winters before these she didn’t know.

“What,” Constance’s eyes sparkled with awe as the cigarrillo’s glow intensified, “is that?”

“ _A cigarrillo._ ” She watched the smoke drift out as she spoke, filling the air more delightfully than warm breath ever had. Shirley coughed, “They’re Spanish and the most divine thing you’ll ever put between your lips. Well, that’s true for you at least, Shirley.”

“You can stop the high and mighty _‘I travelled’_ act now, Spellman. You didn’t come near the continent.”

“No,” She admitted, taking another drag and this time pointedly directing the smoke into Shirley’s face, “but a few Spaniards did come near me. Well I say _near._ ”

She stubbed out the end of the cigarrillo on her heel before digging it into the ground. Absently she wondered how long it would take to get another pack sent over. Maybe a few. Perhaps she’d find some way to thank Ramón properly too.

Thoughts disturbed by an overly exuberant flounce of blonde curls in the corner of her vision, Zelda cast her eyes down and prayed to Satan that Hilda wasn’t foolhardy enough to try to join their conversation. She’d have to get to it fast.

“I hear not much has changed here since I’ve been gone.”

“More of the dull grey that Greendale has to offer.” Constance confirmed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her, “Oh, but no Brother Carswell since the Feast of Feasts after you left.”

_Lucky son of a gun._ It was almost always someone from the Carswells the Dark Lord saw fit to bestow the honour upon. It was a wonder Martha was able to keep their numbers steady, even when she had been a regular midwifery patient of hers before she left. A quick glance in her direction confirmed she was with child again, at least six children she didn’t recognise surrounding her. The eldest would be eligible for the Feast draw soon no doubt. If he was chosen before her perhaps the mother wouldn’t be so lucky to make it through her next birth and Zelda could finally put an end to the whole torrid affair.

A wry smile curved her lips, “Who’s his replacement at the Academy?”

“We assumed you; coming back with yet another language learnt.” Sweet, sweet Constance; she played right into her hand.

“Sister Jackson, I would have thought you’d put an application in for the position long ago.” Zelda had it on good authority from Edward that Shirley _had_ applied. Every year in fact, “But I suppose the students should be grateful that you knew your limitations and _tongues_ never have been your strong suit.”

Before a complaint could start in Shirley’s throat, Zelda was continuing, tapping Shirley’s arm in her best imitation of comfort, “No matter, I shall lead the students where you cannot. Besides, I’ve recently discovered I have more of a connection to the ancient world than you could ever believe.”

Right on schedule, Constance piped up, “What do you mean, Sister Spellman?”

Shirley shot the younger witch daggers but if she noticed she didn’t flinch. Judging by her general demeanour it was likely she’d been spending considerable time with Hilda so perhaps she truly hadn’t noticed. Now that Zelda had returned she’d take Constance under her wing, it was the least she could do for the poor girl if she’d befriended Hilda _and_ Shirley _._

“The Spellman’s are a family with a long, upstanding tradition, but it seems we have more reason to be proud than most.”

Hilda’s hair bounced towards them. She would not have this moment ruined.

Zelda continued, a smug smile on her face as she hurried out the words, “It seems I’m a proud member of the Campbell Clan.”

If Shirley had scoffed any harder her tonsils might well have flown out, “You’ve come out with some tales in your years, Spellman. But a Campbell? That’s got to be the most ridiculous. Coven families in Scotland are well reported and there’s not a single Campbell among them.”

Zelda gave a slow blink, smirking as Constance’s chittered laughter hit her ears.

“Would you like to suggest how exactly it is that they're able to enact so many beheadings then, Sister Jackson? Or would you rather I recount the exact spell Grey Colin uttered to separate the Gregor Clan Chief from his head?” She gave pause only for the quickest of catch breaths; hardly enough time for a response, “Do shed some light onto why I was welcomed into the Clan with welcome arms to help hold back the English. Or perhaps you’d like to find your own Clan’s kilt among the numerous chiefdoms? I’m sure they’d be only too happy to have a dark-haired, English sympathiser, sorry Constance,” She nodded to the girl knowing full well her lineage was predominantly English, but at least she was pretty enough to forgive such a misfortune, “asking questions. And while you’re there, please do feel free to inquire who it was that gifted me the Campbell tartan, I’m sure they’d be mighty keen to know there’s an imposter parading around in it.”

“You can’t deny the tartan now, really Shirley.” Constance reached out to the patterned wool, brushing her fingertips over it.

The girl appreciated good fashion, perhaps she _could_ be taught a thing or two after all.

And in the next breath, Hilda was there; bubbly, grinning from ear to ear, and far too close for Zelda’s liking. Constance too changed in her presence; Hilda’s much despised effervescent nature doubling to encompass her too. She really did need help.

“Zelds, have you invited them yet?” Had her tone always been that upbeat? “The more the merrier I always say!”

No, surely it hadn’t. If it had been she would have remembered, would have _refused_ to come back so soon. And yet here she was, listening to trivial questions as though she’d never left.

“No Hilda,” She dropped Shirley’s arm, much to the witch’s relief, and did her utmost to remind herself of where she was and why exactly thoughts of murder were unwise, “I was about to before I was so _joyously_ interrupted.”

Hilda mimed buttoning her lips, her shoulders shrugging up in a silently apologetic gesture shared with Constance.

Whatever air of superiority Zelda had strived for suddenly vanished as she was harried along, caught in remembering what she should and shouldn’t say around Hilda, and what she already _had_ told Hilda for that matter.

Deciding she’d already waited far too long for her pause to seem collected, she pushed forward anyway, “I will be signing the Book of the Beast under Thursday’s full moon and naturally I assume you’d be honoured to attend.”

She flicked her hair over her shoulder and prepared to leave. Interacting with both Hilda and Shirley at the same time would require far too great a show of selfrestaint for her first week back.

“Maybe I’ve missed something,” Satan, why did Shirley always think she had the upper hand when Hilda was around? Probably something to do with how often news got back to their father if Hilda happened to hear it. She hadn’t kept a single secret in her life, “But didn’t you do that already? Little over a century and a half ago? Made quite a big deal out of it I recall.”

“Yes, and what a glorious night it was for all,” She would not be bested, Shirley’s jibes were nothing compared to an angry Scot with a sword, “But mine is to be the first _re-_ devotion in Coven history. A monumental moment in which I bring the old country and the new together as Zelda Phiona Spellman.” She punctuated each name with a short pause, pride ringing in every word.

Shirley balked, “You added a middle name?”

“It’s so unusual!” Constance’s positivity melding with Hilda’s was enough to start a stress headache forming behind Zelda’s eyes, “Is it Scottish? To represent your Clan?”

“What?”

Oh Heaven, no. Hilda was already piping up.

Faster than Zelda could wheel her round, Hilda was already speaking, words falling out of her mouth in a series of giggles, “No we’re Irish. All Celts together though, right Zelds?”

The speed with which her Bible-filled satchel connected with the back of Hilda’s head shocked even Zelda. But, as her sister crumpled, first to her knees then the ground, and the blood pooled around her, she knew it’d been rash. A glance towards Edward and each parent told her the same; she’d be dragging Hilda’s body to the Cain Pit herself. And in her new kilt too.

Resignedly she sighed, hoisting her by the shoulders, sneering as blood marred the wool’s greens and blues. She doubted Hilda would help her get the stains out now. Perhaps they would make the Scottish Clan aesthetic all the more believable.

Flicking her head up to catch Shirley’s eye as she secured a hold on her sister’s body, Zelda paused just long enough to set a glib smile back in place, “Thursday, 11pm. I’ll expect to see you both there.”

* * *

_Every word sounded like a death threat when paired with a sword dripping with blood. This was the fourth beheading she'd seen where they'd refused to make use of the spell she'd provided._

_She pointed to the scroll still fastened to Grey Colin's hip, watching as his chest heaved with the exertion of his latest kill._

_"Sasannach." He spat, wiping his blade on the already blood splattered grass._

_It was the same disdainful reasoning she was met with every time. Of course the spell was in English. A mistranslation into Gaelic could take anyone's head off._

_Sighing with the aggravation, Zelda flipped through her handwritten translations, hoping she'd find something to get across the severity of the situation. They simply couldn't hold off the English with sword alone, whether it started a witch hunt or not._

_"Tha mi Èireannach." That one she knew at least; she'd been trying to convince them she was no more English than they were simply because she spoke it, "Mura cleachd thu an…” Her frantic searches for the phrasing she needed had her frustration flaring dramatically. Why on Satan’s green Earth would they send her somewhere she didn’t speak the language when she spoke fifteen others perfectly adequately? “Gheasaibh dè a ’phuing a th’ annam a bhith an seo?"_

_Resheathing his sword, it seemed Grey Colin’s interest in her was through and he turned, trudging his way back through the field, stepping heavily on the hand of a still-writhing Gregor clansman._

_"They don't want you here."_

_She hadn’t asked for opinions, certainly not from the other missionaries, and yet here they were, being offered freely anyway._

_"Excuse me?" If this was his idea of solidarity, she’d have a few choice words in response._

_Her arms crossed over her chest, daring him to challenge her. If Edward couldn’t hold his own against her, what hope did this...ruffian have?_

_"It's not just you. They didn't want any of us here.” The warlock puffed on the thin stick-like object between his lips, releasing a cloud of stale smoke into the air; the only benefit of which was the muddying of the smell of fresh blood drying around them, “Until they discovered we're Scottish too."_

_Zelda balked. A most unladylike of sounds and yet here, in the presence of a man less likely to be Scottish than she was to hail from the orient, it seemed the only fitting response._

_"You're Scottish?"_

_"Ramón Leith Pérez." He winked and Zelda was quite certain she'd never seen anyone less Scottish than the personification of tall, dark and handsome before her, "All that red hair, you're telling me you're not a little Scottish too?"_

_"Irish and, as everyone keeps informing me, it's not the same thing." The bitterness rang clear in her voice._

_As it should. She had every reason to be bitter; she hadn’t even suggested that the two were the same, simply that she might hold the same level of disdain for the English as they did._

_"Maybe you should check the records again. I'm sure I saw an offshoot of the Campbell line somewhere. A distant cousin of a cousin who crossed the sea maybe you'd be surprised, Zelda Phiona Spellman."_

_"I don't have a middle name."_

_"And yet, you might be more successful if you did." Ramón dug what remained of the smoking stick into the soft ground underfoot, exhaling a final puff of smoke out into the air, this one decidedly more pleasant than the first, "You can thank me later."_

* * *

By some miracle, an incantation had hidden most of the blood and, by the time she was trapped between Faustus’s arms in the front left hand pew, that evening it was all but gone. She toyed with his shirt buttons, noting her preference for this style tunic on him than his previous ones -- it made him more distinguished. Or maybe that was just what eighteen years did for a man.

“I’ve met some strapping warlocks while I’ve been away, you know? Muscular.” Zelda leant forward, placing a wet kiss against what little of his chest the tunic exposed, “Warriors.” Pure killing machines if she was honest, “Primal.” Her lips trailed along the column of Faustus’ neck, peppering soft kisses against hot skin, “And the rumours are true; they don’t wear a single thing under their kilts. Far easier to reach down and,” Biting her lip, she sunk her hand into his trousers, smirking at the resulting gasp. He was easier to play than a fiddle sometimes, “thoroughly _thank_ them for their protection.”

She stroked him in the way that, two centuries of knowing his body as vividly as her own had taught her, would elicit that staggered inhalation, broken into three sharp breaths. It took no more than a minute to have those gasps filling the church, echoing off the walls and back to her as far more than three. The acoustics were ideal.

And he would try to keep the upper ground; calm himself by challenging her, "I thought the English had outlawed kilts.” Like that.

And she would challenge him right back, trading his earlobe between her teeth, “Well Faustus, you do know how I love a rebel.” Their usual game played to the letter, Zelda extracted her hand from Faustus's trousers, turning to bend herself over the pew as she had so many times before, “And if I hadn’t worn one today, how would you check to see if I was just like all the other Scots out there, and far easier to _thank._ ”

Faustus growled low in his throat and there was _his_ primal side that she’d missed. While he may not be much of a warrior, he certainly had that, “Satan made something special when he made you, Zelda Spellman.”

And she had him, wrapped around her little finger.

Her eyes met his with deadly severity, “I want you to say it properly. Until the day I stop being a Spellman I want you to use my full name like you’re chastising me for not being an honest woman yet.”

Perhaps it was too candid a sentiment for a late night fuck in her father's church, but eighteen years of different witches and warlocks in her bed, in fields, pressed against castle walls, had Zelda craving the familiar.

“If you were an honest woman sleeping with me, wouldn’t that require more chastisement?” Of course he'd try to weasel his way out with semantics.

“You’re a smart warlock, Brother _Blackwood._ I’m sure you could think of a way around that.”

“That I could,” He thrust into her roughly, her breath forced out in a pant as his lips found his way to her ear, “Maybe you should familiarise yourself with the Blackwood name, Zelda _Phiona_ Spellman.”

At least he would believe her unquestionably, no matter how Irish he knew she was.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed my ridiculousness...I'm not even sorry for it at this point. If you've made it this far I'd love to hear your thoughts even if it's just to tell me that I'm officially too far down the rabbit hole. Love you all as always and thanks for reading!
> 
> Sasannach - English  
> Tha mi Èireannach - I'm Irish  
> Mura cleachd thu an gheasaibh dè a ’phuing a th’ annam a bhith an seo? - If you don't use the spell, what's the point of me being here?


End file.
